Metal bends from warmth, not punches
"Why did you call?" John asks without looking back, knowing Sherlock is right there. Strange that, how he knows, even if he is as silent as a predator. And after all this time when John felt his presence, this time, if he was to turn around, Sherlock would be right there, corporeal and defying the laws of man. This time, John Watson isn't talking to himself. And still, he walks ahead, pretending he is, in fact, alone.
"I thought Lestrade will need a confirmation on my statement. You're the only one who knows about the three assassins. You never told him about the recording, obviously."
"Obviously. But he believes you. Unbelievably. You knew he'll believe you. No need for me here."
"I killed a man, John."
"I know, I heard."
"It wasn't self defence. I looked him in the eyes and executed him."
That makes John Watson stop. And turn. And look at Sherlock. Even if the detective was expecting a reaction, there is none, except for the sudden stop. The blue eyes are searching him and Sherlock waits for John to understand. He does. A military nod, a late blessing of sort and a hint of something else in the twitch of his left hand trigger finger makes Sherlock's lips twitch.
Then John turns and starts walking again. And Sherlock really, really wants to stop him. But understanding sentiment, with its incredibly simple chemistry, so very destructive, and reacting in a certain way within the parameters of sentiment are two very different things and instead of doing something unacceptable, Sherlock says something inconceivable.
"Thank you. For the frozen-"
"It was nothing. And suddenly you starting to say thank you is...it's just..."
"You don't mind me killing a man and yet-"
"Yes! Because that's what you were, what you did. You break people, bring them down, no matter the cost. You don't say "thank you" and "I'm sorry" and ..."I'm alive". And now it's too late to start, Sherlock."
Sherlock forgets the basic movement of right-lef-right in his feet when he hears his name in John's voice. He sees the muscles moving, contracting as if to hold the man together, his back tense and smaller with vulnerability and Sherlock knows he did that. For the first time, he considers if coming back, back for John, was a good idea.
"I'm not a machine."
The elevator clicks as it reaches their floor, a mechanical sound as a resonating full stop for his sentence. He says the only thing he really needed to say to John. He can only hope John will see it and understand it as everything that he can't voice any other way without making himself sound weak or ridiculous.
As the double doors open in front of them, the small space inside doesn't look like an escape, but more like a fall. John turns on his heels and heads for the stairs. Sherlock doesn't follow.
"I'll come by 221B. To see...Mrs. Hudson."
"Fine," John replies but does not stop.
"Sure you want to take the stairs?" Sherlock offers from inside the elevator and kicks himself for it after the words fly out. Idiot.
"Psychosomatic limp, remember?"
John's brave or maybe silly gesture allows Sherlock to get a head start on the way back to Baker Street. Even if the original plan was for Mycroft to intercept John somewhere on the way and allow Sherlock the time to ...make the visit, this will work too. Very convenient, especially as the text arrives to confirm his plan is on schedule.
"Briknov on way to 221B, Baker Street. MH"
He allows himself a smug smile, because his brother finally sent a text and even if he can feel theunwritten "be careful" in that line on the screen, it's better than to have Mycroft lecture him with his insufferable voice. Mycroft knows it too. Just the fact that he kept it brief makes a clear statement about his concern.
"Unnecessary."
"You sayn' something, sir?" the undercover agent posing as the cabbie -so very obvious, damn you Mycroft- turns to check and Sherlock knows this man has been in the business of driving for less than a year. He ignores him and reaches for the revolver he knows sits under the front seat. He pockets the exquisite piece as the pretend cabbie asks, watching him in the rear mirror "Is this...route, satisfactory, sir?"
Sherlock knows the unique revolver by heart. And Mycroft would give him nothing less than a perfect match to his requirements for this. So the question is trivial and he ignores it, choosing to respond to the question per se.
"No. Take a left here and then two rights. You'll get there faster."
"Yes sir."
Of course Mrs. Hudson is not in. Another of Mycroft's black, invisible cars picked her up from somewhere in town and she's now safe away from 221B baker Street, replaced by an agent, for Moran's eyes if he should be watching. For this to work, the Colonel needed to think she's home and alone. Another reason to get John to the Yard.
He arrives with plenty of time to post himself behind Mrs. Hudson's door and not wait too long as to drive himself crazy. Still, Briknov is 10 minutes late. Sherlock thinks criminals are just too lazy and just for that they deserve to be shot. This one surely does. And will.
The sentence is carried out with explosions of adrenaline. Less for him, of course, where is the thrill when knowing the outcome, but even with only the image of the captured killer in front of him and Sherlock is satisfied. The game reaches three tries each when John steps inside and calls for Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock doesn't stop and places the revolver to his temple.
"My turn," he teases the bald sack of scared to death flesh , tied to the chair except for one hand.
And it's too late to send John away or curse his brother for allowing him to get home, or even contemplate the need for a professional cleaning crew after this will be carried out. All he sees is the man's eyes, all he smells is the cold nickel and all he hears is John inhaling deep and desperate in the open door.
"Sherlock..."
He clenches his finger and the air coming out of John's mouth makes a far more distinguishable sound. Only then Sherlock turns to him and smiles. Like a madman.
"John, meet Anton Briknov. He was kind enough to miss Mrs. Hudson going out and still accept my invitation to a little game. You see, he likes fire arms. So much so, his day job as a handyman is the real hobby. And a clever disguise. Because his interest in our landlady's rooms for the past three years are not related to mould or the broken heater.
"The hit man."
"Yes. And if he came to play, I set up a little game."
"Cluedo wasn't good enough? You just had to do the Russian roulette and die in front of me? Again?"
"You being here is an inconvenient derail from the plan. And I'm very much alive., as you can see, doctor."
"Stop this."
"But it's his turn."
"He deserves it. But you-"
"John, why don't we let him chose. Mister Briknov, play the game and a. die, b. win and walk free, knowing you killed Sherlock Holmes -well, not exactly you, but it will do the trick- or c. leave here without completing your job and become a target for your superior. And you heard what he can do.
John tries to think about it. Really tries to erase the image of Sherlock's face full of blood and then Mrs. Hudson's face full of blood and he takes to long to say something. Anything. The killer already has the weird looking revolver in his hand and his decision is made the moment Sherlock explains his options.
The noise this time is real and the smell is real. On instinct, an instinct he never knew he had, Sherlock jumps up from the chair he sits in and blocks John's view of the scene even before the blood is too real. He's standing in front of the smaller man and they just look at each other. John sees a sad peace in Sherlock's eyes and a little doubt and a tinny bit of frailty.
Sherlock sees himself in John's eyes, closer and closer, until he can't see John or himself any more. He can only feel. Powerful left hand grabbing his neck and pressing down, breath racing and hitting his ultra sensitive skin, perspiration above John's upper lip and cold separation as he's left there, eyes closed, to try and process the magnitude of this scene.
"Breathe, Sherlock."
He does and finally looks ahead, where he thinks John is. Time must be scrambled and irrational now, because Sherlock didn't feel the body move. And somehow John is across the room, picking up the revolver from de dead man's hand.
"This is going to be hard to explain. Yes, he did come in packing a gun, but he did shot himself using your revolver. Not even Anderson is going to miss that. Strange how little blood there is..."
John talks, but avoids his eyes and Sherlock really wants to read something hard as ground in those eyes, to restore his balance.
"He...mhm...yes...no, it's because the revolver is highly modified. And the...him, it won't be a problem. I...arhh...I set up the place. So a fight...yes, looks like a fight, he, you know..."
"...surprised you..."
"Yes. And then..."
The rest of the possibly very well thought, rational scenario, was explained in a vague sequences of flailing, pointing and head scratching, thank God, without holding a gun this time.
"So everything stays the way it is. Right then. We should call Lestrade."
"On the way."
"Oh. So I'll...go now. To look for Mrs. Hudson."
Before John can reach the threshold, Sherlock opens his mouth and closes it twice. Then finds himself with the revolver in his hand, pushed there by John, and a little more sense in his head, so he gives the antique piece back to John's hand, catching him by surprise.
"This is yours."
Looking down, then back up, the soldier stoically keeps his eyes level. Sherlock is not so brave and looks at the other man's lips. Twice.
"You don't do presents, either."
Sherlock frowns and tries to make sense of the actions and reactions in the past 3 minutes.
"Never mind that. I'll explain. But...youpunched me. And kissed me. And you still act like ...like that," he signals toward John, a run through with his hands over the space the man's body occupies and suppressed annoyance on his face.
"Yes, because relationships are complicated, Sherlock, specially when one of the parties involved lies to the other for three years and then comes back and expects ...what, giggles at crime scenes? The punch? You deserved it. The kiss? That, you can...I don't know, delete it or-"
"I can't just delete it," Sherlock cuts in, indignantly. "I know things can't go back to how they were...I know. But you see now. You understand why I had to."
"Actually...I think I do. I think I know how you justify it to yourself. You think you did it for us. No, you believe it. But you don't, can't think of how it made us...me, feel."
"I..."
"I can't believe we're discussing this over a dead body. After you played the god damn Russian roulette with the man. You bloody idiot."
"Not good?"
This time John's mouth unexpectedly changes shape. A smile. Part guilty, part hidden, but a smile. And of course Lestrade comes in with the cavalry just as the poetry of this whole scene sinks into Sherlock. A rehearsal, adrenaline in his veins, John smiling, the revolver designed for him especially in his -left- hand. Perfect.
After a few hours of questioning at the Yard, a revolver lost in the evidence room, a few "NO" texts sent to Mycroft's "I'll get you out" daft interference, they are both released until further notice. Sherlock doesn't listen.
The scene from this morning, them walking to the elevator, repeats itself, with different parameters. In disposing of Briknov, Sherlock pursued only two advantages: to prove the revolver was fit and the opponent was mislead. But he received an ally. Willingly, John backed up his story. They were functioning in synchronous paces that Sherlock recognized before, but never accepted how much he missed. Until now.
"I can't delete it."
Surely John will know what he means. Because he can't say it now. And John stops, waiting for Sherlock to catch up and then starts again, limp long forgotten.
"Try harder."
"I have to know what it means. It drives me insane. I barely heard Lestrade asking the questions. You kiss me, but won't forgive me, or even let me in-"
"In where? In the flat? I'll move, you can have it. For a year it stood deserted. I guessed your brother kept paying the rent. I figured it was his sick way to repent. Now though, the reason is obvious. Give my apologies to him for mistakenly considering he has a heart."
"I'm not back mainly to enjoy the good job you did in clearing my name. Or even just to ...take out the trash. Mycroft could have done that following my direction."
"Then why are you back?"
"Isn't it obvious, John?"
The elevator's double doors are closer and closer and Sherlock is rather desperate to solve this puzzle. And clear his head.
"No...it really isn't obvious for me."
"I love you. I must be. This...this," he pointlessly gestures towards himself. "If that's what it takes to explain it, these words, to make sense-"
"Jesus, Sherlock," John interrupts, collapsing his head on his hands against the wall. "You can't come back and say things like thank you and please and, my God, not this...you don't know...you can't-"
"Please John," Sherlock huffs, "I told you, I'm not a machine and I'm definitely not an idiot. I understand the process-"
"You're calling it a process."
"Yes, well, this has to make sense to me. It can't just walk around with ...what do they call it, puppy eyes and stupid grins and bring you flowers."
"Nooo, you just kill yourself for me and then come back and give me a revolver that you used to kill make a killer kill himself."
"Yes."
At the short conclusion, John breaths a long breath and pushes the button to call the elevator.
"I can't delete your choice of keeping me in the dark. Or, maybe I could have, but you made me watch you jump. That was cruel."
"Your reaction saved you and them. One doubt and they would have gone ahead with the plan."
"But three years?"
Sherlock knows when to not answer a question. He lets John get into the elevator and lingers for a second outside. When his friend reaches a hand and stops the door from closing on him, he steps inside.
"You have a life now," Sherlock offers.
"No...I really don't. You were wrong, you know?"
"Wrong? I'm never wrong," he counters.
"But you were. I know Mary for almost two years now. She was a ballet dancer and had an accident while dancing under- well, let's just say she made mistake. I met her at a group session Ella dragged me to after... And she does resent my limp, but we do feel something for each other."
Sherlock waits for the part he got wrong and see how John is almost amused by that.
"But she's my … you can call it sponsor. And I'm hers. Ground breaking thing in counselling and recovering, Ella thought. In the beginning it felt stupid, embarrassing and...just wrong. But it worked. And we decided to keep it simple. Well..."
"A sponsor...a sponsor."
"Yes. There's always something, right?"
And John smiles wider now and Sherlock feels like smiling too.
"I frightened her yesterday. It was the first time I held my gun in front of her. I told her about it, about you, but..."
"The fact that you had the gun pointing at someone was the reality call."
"Yes...Jesus, I could have shot you. We suspected after you...we suspected, Lestrade and myself, that there must have been someone similar to try and make that abduction possible and blame it on you. I thought you were him. It was easier to believe it was him."
Sherlock doesn't know what to say to that. John abandoned the sentiment part of the discussion, and he will not start it again. And anyway, what John says now are facts. There's no resentment in those words.
"You pocket is vibrating. Still taking pissing contests with your brother?"
"He's probably telling me Mrs. Hudson is ready to come home. And- What? No. What does that even mean, pissing contest? It makes no-"
"I was joking."
"Oh."
"Yes. Oh."
They look at each other and it's dangerously close to the past.
"It's so easy to forget you're a complete bastard."
"Not for me, I have a bruise," Sherlock makes a point by sticking his finger in the bluish/green/yellow patch of skin on the much paler face.
"You'll live," John offers and after a moments hesitation, starts laughing like a man who lost his mind.
Sherlock allows himself to smile, hidden from John's laughter banding form. But the truth is, this, it hurts. He never spent a second thought, in three years, over his motives and decision. Not when he successfully brought down a web of criminals, not when he needed to ask his brother for help -well, maybe a little then.
He didn't doubt it when coming up with the plan for John to take out Moran, he knew John will say yes, eventually, maybe not as quickly, but he knew. His plans always work. The percentages are amazing when needing to decide on a game of chess, like this turned out to be.
Conscience, on the other side, or love, are disadvantages found on the losing side, as he once told a pawn. He didn't calculate his return in those. Not in the beginning. Conscience never troubled him when standing in front of John and receiving a punch. It was a planned outcome.
But this, right here, John laughing next to him, already saying yes to killing a man, and yet not yes to him, laughing after a bad joke about death, the same thing that kept him debilitated for three years, brings conscience back into the equation. It's unpleasant. And maybe a little frightening, because he needs a clear, sharp mind to make the last move in this game, and John can't pay for his sentiment impaired judgement. Not after all the time he spent keeping John safe.
It's strange, how his only weakness is the puzzle that this man next to him represents and yet, he is his best move. It's illogical and too poetic for him to stand and maybe John could explain it to him if John wouldn't be smiling with warmth in his eyes.
"Shall we, then? I think I'll come to make sure Mrs. Hudson gets her chance at punching you."
The phone in his coat pocked chirps again.
Adair planted the doubt. The car is
"Fantastic."
"What is?" John straightens himself and walks into the street, Sherlock at his side and asks no questions before stepping into the black car parked illegally and obviously not one of the police force.
"You," Sherlock answers holding the door and taking a quick look around. He doesn't dare to look at John.